16/01/2026
Amanda's thoughts this time of the year 😂
Ode to a Tree Surgeon’s Wife
I’m a tree surgeon’s wife, so our house has a theme:
Wet trousers on radiators, a mossy old dream.
Socks dripping by doorways, shirts slung on a chair,
That earth-after-rain scent just floating mid-air.
Oh the smell of those clothes — what a treat, what a joy!
A rich blend of sawdust, wet bark, and… oh boy.
It’s mud, sap, and chainsaw with a hint of “outside,”
A fragrance so strong it refuses to hide.
Tree surgeons have a smell — this much is true,
Not a candle on earth could recreate that brew.
I’ve stood in a checkout, minding my queue,
And thought, “There’s a tree surgeon… and he’s behind me, too.”
It’s not soap or cologne, it’s graft and it’s grit,
It’s hard-earned and honest — every bit of it.
From dawn until dusk, up a tree, risking skin,
Doing dangerous work just to bring wages home in.
They climb and they cut, with the wind in their face,
In rain, cold, and heat — it’s no gentle workplace.
They work for their families, hearts steady and true,
And I admire them deeply for all that they do.
So yes, our house smells like a woodland gone wrong,
And the laundry takes days and the socks smell so strong.
But I love my dear husband — brave, muddy, and kind,
My tree surgeon hero, one of a kind 🌳❤️
